Rosamonde: The Real Story of Sleeping Beauty (3 page)

The main reason for my detestation of such occasions, of course, was my narcolepsy. And even more, of course, Prince Fenris. It was bad enough wondering whether I was about to fall flat on my snoring face in the middle of a waltz or a bowl of lobster bisque, but to have the prince hovering on my heels made it doubly worse. He claimed the first dance at every ball, he somehow managed to have himself seated next to me at every dinner, and he escorted me to every concert and play we went to that season.

At first, I suspected my scheming mother of this treachery, but she protested that she had nothing to do with any of the arrangements.

“It’s according to Bordavian custom, dear,” she said. “Article Seven of the Bordavian constitution. The wishes of a visiting member of a royal family are given first rights in all social occasions except for baptisms, weddings, and funerals. It’s an old law, written by the first king of Bordavia, hundreds of years ago, Otto the First.”

“Otto the First must’ve been a sap,” I snapped. “Wasn’t he a smelly goatherd or something like that before he became the king?”

“The country needs good goatherds just as much as it needs a good king,” said my mother mildly.

“Well, I wish I was a goatherd now. If I was, I wouldn’t have that impossible goon Fenris shadowing my every step. I can’t stand him! Why can’t we send him packing to Delmania?”

My mother did not answer, for she had fallen asleep on her couch. I did not need to hear her answer, however, for I already knew the reason. Despite my youth, I was no fool. The Delmanian Army was still engaged in maneuvers near our border. As long as their soldiers marched back and forth among the western hills, Bordavia had to tread warily.

And I was a Bordavian, through and through.

***

A ball was held at the castle that evening. It was not just any old ball. It was the White and Red Ball, that annual event celebrating the gorgeous roses for which Bordavia is so well-known. You might consider it an odd reason for a ball, but we Bordavians are proud of our roses and do not take them lightly. Of course, we grow them in many other colors besides white and red, but colors such as orange and yellow and pink are merely momentary diversions when it comes to roses. As my father always says, if you are going to plant only one rose bush in a garden, it should be red. The second? White, naturally.

The moon was high in the sky, an obligingly pure and pristine white that paired nicely with the waterfall of white roses spilling down over the castle walls. Carriages rolled up the winding drive, one after the other, their horses trotting along under the watchful eyes of their coachmen. Lamplight flared golden within the archway. Lords and ladies, diplomats and dilettantes, everyone who was anyone in all of Bordavia was there that night.

Inside the grand ballroom, dancers swept across the marble floor to the strains of a Viennese waltz. The walls and alcoves and sitting rooms were crowded with people chatting and gossiping and sipping champagne and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres. Father, no doubt, was playing billiards in his private smoking room with the British ambassador, the archbishop, and several other notables. Uncle Milo was investigating a silver tub of caviar. Mother was chatting on one of the balcony verandas with the queen of Lune, who happened to be her cousin, twice removed.

And where was I? I was dancing with the prince of Delmania, of course.

“You are an excellent dancer, Princess Rosamonde,” said Prince Fenris.

“As are you,” I said grudgingly.

“Naturally. I am the heir to the throne of Delmania. I am the best at everything I do. It is a Delmanian law.”

“I daresay you were the best-looking baby in all of Delmania.”

“Naturally,” said the prince. “All babies in our country are born good-looking. It is compulsory. Though, of course, I was an extremely handsome baby, so I’ve been told. There were many poems written about my birth. We Delmanians are fond of poetry. I, myself, occasionally write a couplet or two. Would you like to hear a recent effort? It is quite good.”

“If you must,” I said somewhat grumpily.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking the same thing my mother would’ve thought, had she been there. A princess must always be pleasant. A princess must always be polite. A princess must always be gracious. A princess must always be serene, diplomatic, charming, patient, and kind.

Bah, humbug.

“Perhaps the balcony would be a more proper setting for my poem?” said Prince Fenris.

The prince’s suggestion was more of a statement than a question. He took me by the elbow and steered me toward the balcony. Celeste and a contingent of footmen trailed behind us, keenly eyeing me for any sign of a yawn or drooping eyelids. As for myself, I was praying for my narcolepsy to kick in.

“Must they accompany us?” asked the prince, glancing back at the little parade of servants.

“They must,” I said. “Doctor’s orders.”

He shrugged. “No matter. They will greatly enjoy my poem.”

“I’m sure they will,” I said, resisting an urge to stomp on his toes.

“Of course.”

He selected a brilliant pool of moonlight cascading down the side of the balcony terrace and stood in the middle of it. I have to admit that he used the light to great effect. Even Celeste, who is French and very critical, raised one eyebrow.

“Soaring up through endless sky

the prince in round silk does fly.

Such a rare and noble sight!

The hawk veers with humbled gaze;

the eagle stares, stunned, amazed.

Oh, Delmania!

Storm clouds flee before the sight;

the sun bows to lend its light.

Has e’er been a prince like him?

The crowds gape, slack-jawed, from the earth,

they yearn to forget their smelly peasant birth.

Oh, Delmania!”

Prince Fenris smiled and looked expectantly at me. The footmen broke into nervous applause. The prince dipped his head graciously.

“It is an extremely good poem, isn’t it,” he said to me.

“I am practically speechless.”

“My poetry always has that effect on people. I have a rare gift for writing. My professors in school said that I was the best student they’d ever had. I will write the poem out for you so that you may read it whenever you wish.”

“I look forward to that,” I said, adjusting my face into what I presumed was a sweet smile. Actually, what I looked forward to was stomping up and down on the piece of paper, ripping it to pieces, and then throwing it in the fire.

“Naturally.” He took a half step to one side, as the best spot of moonlight had slid over a few inches. “I will now recite another of my poems for you. This one will thrill you to the depths of your very soul. It is called ‘Ode to Myself While Looking in the Mirror.’”

Thankfully, that was when I fell asleep.

***

The next day was one of the worst days of my life.

I woke to a brilliant blue sky outside my window. It was one of those perfect mornings that are usually found only in soppy romance novels. Birds were chirping and singing in pleasant, well-modulated tones. The scent of roses wafted through the air. A hot, buttered croissant and a steaming teapot waited in patient decorum on my bedside table. After breakfast and a leisurely bath, I wandered outside to the Red Rose Garden. That’s the one directly behind the castle. It has a tall stone wall around it and is only about ten acres in size. It’s the smallest of the castle rose gardens.

I spent a pleasant hour dealing death and destruction to a population of thrips I discovered skulking in some rose bushes near the west fountain. Horticulture, of course, is in my blood. I was confident the little bugs were of Delmanian descent. Pumping the pesticide sprayer was an excellent morning exercise. The three footmen accompanying me took turns with it. Of course, I had to take over after the first hour, as they were beginning to perspire, and Celeste refused to participate, claiming her back was feeling poorly.

“Ahem,” said someone nearby.

I turned to see Count Mundo Glissando. He swept me one of his impossibly low bows, practically plunging his face into the turf. He straightened back up. I was interested to see that his nose had acquired an inchworm. From the grass, I suppose.

“Your Highness,” he said, smiling broadly. “It is a beautiful morning, is it not?”

“It was.”

“Made even more fabulously beautiful by your presence, like the sky is graced by the beauty of the sun, like the starry night is adorned with the moon’s pearl luster, like the Alps are elevated to snowy heights of rapturous grace by the—”

At this point the fat little count broke into a fit of coughing, as I had accidentally depressed the handle of the pesticide sprayer while aiming the nozzle in his face.

“Oh, my apologies,” I said contritely. “Did you happen to inhale some of that? I don’t think it’s too poisonous.”

“No matter,” he said, gasping. “Always a pleasure! Er, if I may present the compliments of His Royal Magnificence, Crown Prince Fenris. He desires an audience with yourself. Just a private little chat.”

The count swept another bow and then bounced adroitly backward as the pesticide nozzle inexplicably twitched in my hands. From somewhere behind an enormous mass of pink Chinese emperor roses, a brass band struck up a military-sounding march. I frowned. I’m not fond of brass bands, and I’m doubly not fond of them showing up unannounced when I’m spraying thrips in rose gardens.

A contingent of soldiers marched around the corner. Upon catching sight of me, one of them barked a command in Delmanian. The soldiers formed two rows. Their swords rang free from their scabbards and created a shining archway. I considered spraying them for thrips, but I did not have enough pesticide left in the bottle. The prince appeared and strode toward me beneath the shining blades. His heels clicked together, and then he sank down on one knee.

“Highness,” he said, shouting a bit in order to be heard over the brass band, “I do you the great honor of presenting my hand in marriage.”

“Oh?” I said. “You do, do you?”

For once, words mostly failed me. I considered my options. They were limited. I could either brain him with the sprayer (though I was relatively certain it would only bounce harmlessly off his thick skull), scream, and run away through the garden, or faint on the spot. The problem with all these options was that they would only postpone whatever ghastly exchange of conversation I would have to eventually have with the prince. Marriage? How ridiculous! I’d rather marry a lice-infested goatherd with three teeth than that self-obsessed prince. Besides, I was too young to be married.

The prince shifted on his knee and began to look a little impatient.

“I have also written a poem in honor of your acceptance,” he said. “It is titled ‘The Marriage of the Illustrious Crown Prince Fenris, Heir to the Throne of Delmania and a Great Many Other Countries We Have Conquered in Glorious Battle.’ You will like it.”

“Naturally,” said Count Glissando. “Who wouldn’t?”

“But first,” continued the prince, “we must have the ring.”

“The ring,” echoed the count.

“The ring!” bellowed an officer standing in front of the soldiers.

“The ring! The ring!” shouted the soldiers in one voice, heads thrown back and shoulders rigid.

“Coming, coming! I’m practically there!” A small page hurried up with a gigantic black velvet-covered box. He bowed. “I’m here. With the ring.”

Count Glissando snatched the box from him and then aimed a kick at the page. “Thank you!”

I must admit that it was the most gorgeous ring I had ever seen. It was also the most enormous ring I had ever seen. The diamond was about as big as an oversized pomegranate. Anyone who wore that thing would have back problems. The ring sparkled in the sunlight.

“Oh la la,” murmured Celeste from behind me. “That is a ring
,
no
n
?”

“You like the ring, of course?” said Prince Fenris. He smiled and twirled one tip of his mustache. “The Eye of the Delmanian Eagle, that is its name. It is an ancient heirloom passed down from queen to queen. As you will be my queen, it is fitting—ah, I have made a very clever pun; I often do—it is fitting that it become yours until the day our eldest son chooses his bride. It is a very expensive ring. The most expensive ring in the whole world, naturally.”

“Naturally,” said the count.

“Naturally,” I said.

“You will put it on now,” said the crown prince.

Before I could do anything, such as stomp the prince’s silk top hat into a crepe or kick the insufferably cheerful little count into a rose bush, Fenris grabbed my hand and shoved the ring on my finger. The thing was so heavy that it just about yanked my arm out of my shoulder socket.

“Beautiful,” said Count Glissando.

“Ow,” I said.

“Very nice,” said the prince approvingly. “Now, let us go surprise your parents with the news. But they will not be surprised, of course—only overjoyed and humbled at the prospect of being united in marriage with the royal family of Delmania. It will be like a humble sparrow marrying into a family of eagles, no? First, though, if you will return the ring so we can perform our little act for their enjoyment, me on my knees, you blushing prettily, I putting the ring on your finger once again, my personal brass band playing a selection of patriotic Delmanian anthems, you weeping tears of joy.”